A Victory Celebration

In the eighteenth century, the war between keepers and poachers could be brutal. In autumn 1796, Bow Street Runner and amateur pugilist Dan Foster has been sent to Barcombe in Somerset to investigate the murder of Lord Oldfield's head gamekeeper. Dan's job is to infiltrate the poaching gang believed to be responsible for the killing and bring them to justice. But Dan has walked into a volatile situation. Lord Oldfield has enclosed Barcombe Wood and deprived the people of their ancient rights to gather food and fuel, sparking off violent protest. The latest raid in Barcombe Wood has ended in a battle between poachers and keepers and Dan only just managed to prevent another murder while keeping his cover intact. The next evening Dan and four members of the six-strong gang are in the Fox and Badger celebrating their victory...

Dan, Singleton, Abe and Travell were treated as if they had performed some marvellous feat fighting six against three and leaving one man so badly beaten he might be lame for the rest of his life. Ford's suffering did not soften the hearts of the people of Barcombe. As they saw it, it might easily be one of them lying injured, and there would be no comfortable bed, no physician, no pension from Lord Oldfield for their families.

In between pouring jugs of ale, tapping barrels and slamming tankards on tables, the landlord, Buller, reported that he had seen Doctor Russell earlier in the day and learned that Ed Ford had two broken ribs and a smashed kneecap, and there was no way of knowing what damage had been done to his insides.

Travell called it striking a blow for English liberties. Everyone cheered and Jem Cox started to sing. Though an ugly, dirty man, he had a fine voice.

"When I was bound apprentice

In famous SomersetshireI served my master trulyFor nearly seven year,Till I took up poachingAs you shall quickly hearFor 'twas my delight of a shiny nightIn the season of the year."

They all took up the chorus and had belted out several more verses when the door opened and in stepped Caleb Witt.

Dan had seen the same thing in a score of London taverns. He would walk into a room and for a couple of heartbeats there would be dead silence. Then it would break with a noise that almost blew him back into the street, everyone talking and laughing, the smokers puffing on their pipes, the drinkers quaffing their ale, the whores wriggling in men's laps. They all knew who he was, though they all pretended not to. And either none of them had heard of the man he was after and his crimes, or they could all swear he was somewhere else at the time.

By the time Witt had fastened the door the villagers were engrossed in their cards and dominoes, their beer and baccy, their chat about dogs and horses. There was even a smattering of "Good evening, Caleb" as Witt pushed his way to the bar and placed one large, red fist on the counter. Dan doubted the gamekeeper had missed the momentary pause, or that he was fooled by the innocent bustle.

Witt did not answer until he had slaked his first thirst with a long pull at his drink. "He's well enough."

He turned and surveyed the company.

"I'll join you, Singleton."

He strode over, dragged a stool from under the next table and straddled his thick legs over it. He was younger than Dan had realised, only in his late twenties. His face was ruddy, the skin coarse and crinkled around the eyes. He had a large, bulbous nose, a wide mouth, pale eyes set beneath a bony brow.

"Damp night," he remarked.

They all agreed on this. He looked at Dan. "I don't think I know you."

"Dan Fielding," said Singleton. "My new forge assistant."

"Ah, the boxing cove." Witt rubbed his jaw where Dan's knuckles had left a purple stain.

"Yes, I dare say the best goods are those that cost you nothing to get but bring a high profit when you sell 'em," Witt replied. "Makes you wonder how poor labouring folk manage to put their dinners on the table, eh Abe?"

"I'm lucky I'm in regular employment," the lad answered, smart but not too jaunty. Witt was a tough man. It would not do to annoy him.

"I hear he's a good master, Farmer Dunnage. Good dog trainer too." Witt drained his glass. "Well then, I'd best be off. Me and Potter will be at the west warren all night."

Leaving them to digest the information that the west warren was precisely where the keepers would not be that night, he rose, wrapped his many-collared coat about him, and made for the door. It was an old game, Dan realised, this bantering between keeper and poacher, where much more was said than was spoken. But it was a grim game, when the stakes were so high on both sides. There was no more singing and the gathering broke up soon after.

Bloodie Bones: A Dan Foster Mystery will be published by SilverWood Books in spring 2015.

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About Me

I live in Bristol and I write historical fiction and non-fiction. In 2006 I completed an MA in English Literature with the Open University, specialising in eighteenth century literature.
My historical novels are set in the eighteenth century. To date they are: To The Fair Land (2012); and the Dan Foster Mystery Series comprising Bloodie Bones (2015), The Fatal Coin (2017) and The Butcher’s Block (2017). Bloodie Bones was a winner of the Historical Novel Society Indie Award 2016 and a semi-finalist for the M M Bennetts Historical Fiction Award 2016.
The Bristol Suffragettes (non-fiction), a history of the suffragette campaign in Bristol and the south west which includes a fold-out map and walk, was published in 2013.